


heroes and villains

by postalcoast



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Actors, HOLLYWOOD COWBOYS, M/M, dutch as a director?? awful idea someone confiscate his cameras please
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24958519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postalcoast/pseuds/postalcoast
Summary: John Marston, a fresh-faced actor and still fairly new to Hollywood's celebrity scene, travels to Rome, Italy to get his big break starring in westerns. Arthur Morgan, a seasoned actor whose well-supplied fame seems to be quickly fading, appears to be in the exact same place for the exact opposite reason.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 27
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've been thinking A LOT about this idea for a while now and I still have no idea what this is 
> 
> Takes place somewhere in the mid to late 1960s, everyone is their canon age as they are in rdr2 (John being 26, Arthur being 36, so on, so on)
> 
> title comes from the song of the same title by the beach boys
> 
> sections in italics are parts of a script or just parts of a "scene"

A starring role in a movie being filmed at Cinecittà Studios in Rome was pretty much handed to John on a silver platter, to say the least. 

Westerns were a big hit nowadays, and to hear Hosea tell it, all he had to do was send over a few episodes of Rogue Valley for the big-time director, Dutch van der Linde to watch and Dutch was practically begging to have John as his starring role.

John knows Hosea well enough to predict it might’ve not been  _ that  _ easy, but it’s definitely not something John’s gonna turn down. 

A few days later, John’s on a plane with his costume packed securely in his suitcase and he’s on his way to Italy. 

Going in, John doesn’t know much about the film. 

He’s to play Jim Milton, an antagonistic role in a western directed by the critically acclaimed “one of the top five best western directors in the world”. He knows the title of the film is called “Città Fantasma” or “Ghost Town”, and he’s to be co-starring with the protagonist, one Arthur Morgan. 

And Arthur Morgan was a  _ big  _ name. 

In the mid to late fifties, Arthur Morgan starred in almost every big movie there was. War stories, dramas, comedies, thrillers; he even did a musical once and it undoubtedly took off without a hitch. Movies that John took his dates to, movies that John snuck into when he didn’t have enough money to buy a ticket. 

An actor that was one of the bigger inspirations and motivations to John that made him want to take up the art of acting. 

Within the next couple of days, John would be meeting the Arthur Morgan, in person. He’d be practically sharing the spotlight with an actor that was considered to be one of the most iconic movie stars of the 1950s. 

That was  _ a lot  _ to take in.

In about 13 hours, John would be landing in Rome. He’d be whisked away to his hotel across the street from Cinecittà Studios, he’d have time to get ready for dinner with Dutch and go over a few last-minute details about the film, and then he’d be due on set that next morning. 

John doesn’t speak Italian, and that was initially one of his first out of many worries. 

However, when voicing this concern with Hosea over the phone, Hosea had quickly assured him that Dutch spoke English as well as he did Italian. 

“His Spanish isn’t great, despite the language being very similar to Italian, but who am I to say? I can hardly speak either.” Hosea had told him. 

And unlike many of the western directors in Rome, Dutch was an American. Something about his films not originally being well received in the States had resorted him into moving to Italy to continue making films. 

“Don’t worry too much about it, they usually do post-sync voices for the actors anyway, all the actors speak their own language and you just have to remember when to say your own line and what it is.” Hosea had said when John further inquired about the language barrier. 

John’s stay in Rome wouldn’t be a long one, considering how fast the westerns were made in Italy, and to hear Hosea tell it, Dutch always had a plan in regards to the time-frame. 

Time was money.

So, John leaves behind the sunny coast of Los Angeles for the beautiful city of Rome, all the while catching up on some sleep and enjoying a few drinks. 

The trip within itself is nothing but profitable, seeing as John’s contract with Rogue Valley interferes with him getting any other roles in the States. That contract, however, says nothing about getting a role in Italy, and Hosea, being able to see the loopholes in everything, was quick to realize this. 

A few more films under his belt, some more money in his pocket, and a chance to meet one of the biggest movie stars within the last two decades. John would have to remember to thank Hosea again when he called him later, and then maybe thank him one more time for good measure.

***

John lands in Rome, checks into his hotel room, takes a shower and changes clothes, and is being chauffeured to some fine dining restaurant about twenty minutes away. All within the span of an hour and a half.

The restaurant is adorned in gold and red carpet, with a breathtaking view of the city surrounding him from every angle, and an atmosphere of low-lighting and soft piano music. John feels severely out of place with his long hair and corduroy bell bottoms in a sea of clean haircuts and sharp suits. 

As John stands awkwardly peering around at the crowds of lavishly dressed people, he hears his name being called out from somewhere near the middle of the room. John easily follows the sound to a table a bit offset from the rest, where a short, broad-shouldered man with slicked-back hair and a thick mustache stands, gesturing him over with a wave of his hand. 

This expensive leisure suit wearing man with a bright and toothy smile is easily assumed as Dutch van der Linde, and the man sitting next to him is a face John could recognize a million times over. 

Arthur Morgan sits, leaned back in the chair next to Dutch, his expression almost intimidatingly shrewd as he turns his head to gaze at John, who’s approaching their table. He’s dressed in a sports coat and turtleneck, a subtle outfit choice in comparison to Dutch and the rest of the restaurant’s patrons. His hair isn’t quite as light as it is in the colored movies John remembers seeing him in, but it isn’t dark, either.

“Mr. Marston, how wonderful it is to finally meet you in person,” Dutch says with an extended hand. 

John takes it, mirroring Dutch’s smile through the firm handshake. “You as well, Mr. van der Linde.”

“Call me Dutch, son,” he gestures to the chair across from him for John to take a seat in, John obliges. Arthur’s gaze never leaves his face. “We all might as well get acquainted; our time together may be short but we’ll be seeing a whole lotta each other.” 

John nods, his best impression of a polite smile plastered on his features as he glances over at Arthur for a split-second before returning his eyes to Dutch. Like Arthur Morgan is the sun and if John were to stare too long, he might burn his eyes out. 

Dutch apparently catches the look, however, because he’s now gesturing over to Arthur’s side of the table with a wave of his hand. “This, I’m sure you know, is Arthur Morgan. He’ll be your co-star and the other starring role. Arthur, this talented young man is John Marston, he’s the lead for Rogue Valley.”

“Didn’t you play in that film about the ranch a couple of years back?” Arthur’s got his arms thrown over the back of his chair, using the hand that John’s reached out to shake to point at John with his index finger and thumb extended. A finger gun, practically. “What was it called?” 

“Beecher’s Hope,” John clarifies after clearing his throat and letting his hand fall back into his lap. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Arthur manages half of a smile, and his own hand drops, leaving John to feel a little bit less like he’s getting held up with an imaginary gun. “ _ Beecher’s Hope. _ ”

“I seem to have missed that one,” Dutch inquires thoughtfully, turning slightly to face John. “I wasn’t aware you also starred in a film.”

“No, he didn’t  _ star  _ in it, he played some minor character that was in the movie for maybe twenty minutes altogether,” Arthur waves off Dutch’s misconception. “Abigail Roberts was the lead actress.” 

John laughs at this, albeit a bit humorlessly, and straightens himself in his chair before turning to face Arthur head-on. “You seem to have done your homework on me, friend.” 

“The only thing I’ve done my homework on is recent, major motion pictures,  _ friend _ ,” Arthur catches John’s sarcasm like he’d thrown it at him, and in one swift motion, he throws it right back. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Now, boys,” Dutch quickly interjects across the table, but it seems to be something he’s used to. Easing down Arthur’s disagreements. Still, he’s got a laugh in his tone like John isn’t currently glaring needles into his co-star. “while the two of you may be placed in antagonistic roles in Ghost Town, that doesn’t mean you have to act the part off set.”

Arthur lifts his hands up, feigning surrender, all with a smug grin on his face that points towards the contrary. 

“My apologies,” He says to nobody in particular, leaning forward to hiss the words across the table before standing. Both Dutch and John’s gazes follow him. “‘Scuse me, gentlemen, I’ll only be a moment.”

He starts off back towards the middle of the restaurant before turning back and pointing a finger at Dutch, somehow more casually than the gesture he made at John. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

Dutch sighs, but nods in confirmation, and both he and John watch as Arthur disappears into the crowd of people. 

“Don’t mind him,” Dutch says to John once Arthur’s out of sight, and John turns around in his seat. “He’s been a bit wound up since he got here. I guess no actor takes the steady decline of their career all too well.”

“Guess not,” John mumbles, and turns his attention to the menu placed out before him. Despite his bad first impression, John can still manage to sympathize with Arthur. The realization of it all is like a smack in the face. 

John, a young and talented actor, coming to Rome and looking for a place to really start his career off with, confronted with Arthur, a well-known but aging actor, coming to the exact same place to finally let his career simmer down.

John orders the  _ spaghettini alle vongole veraci, cime di rapa e wasabi _ , or points to the words on the menu, rather, telling the waiter, “I’ll have that.”

Dutch orders the _ filetto di salmone seluaggio all’aceto di riso, cannellini e zenzero _ for himself and Arthur, sounding the words out with absolute ease. 

“What’s that?” John asks, referring to the meal Dutch just ordered. 

“Salmon,” Dutch smiles at him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Arthur likes fish.”

***

Arthur returns not too long after the food arrives, mumbling excuses about having a smoke outside. He settles in his seat well enough as before and starts eating along with the rest of the table as if he’d never left.

He’s quick to realize John’s staring, but only acknowledges him out of the corner of his eye. It takes John a moment to catch the returned gaze before he quickly drops his own back down to his plate. A part of him still doesn’t want to believe he’s sitting here with Arthur, who seemed to only belong up on the silver screens of the cinemas all over the world. 

If Arthur planned on saying anything about John’s staring, however, Dutch cuts him off, quick to bring up the topic of plans for the film.

“Tomorrow, we’ll start shooting the first few scenes,” Dutch informs John, and glances over to Arthur to make sure his attention isn’t elsewhere, either. “When you arrive tomorrow, you’ll go through makeup and wardrobe first thing.” 

Dutch lifts a script that’s been seated in the extra vacant chair at the table and hands it over to John, who sits it down on the table a little ways off from his plate. “Read over this tonight, memorize the first scenes the best you can. We always have a line reader on set just in case, but don’t rely on them too heavily.”

The three of them finish off their dinner, most of the talking coming from Dutch, with the few occasional few-worded replies or acknowledgements coming from Arthur. John leaves the two of them outside the restaurant with another handshake, to which Arthur complies with this time. His tight smile provided moreso on the terms of being polite, and John heads back to his hotel room. 

He settles down on the neatly made bed, opens up the script, and begins to read. 

_ Ext. Mexico - Longshot - Sunset _

_ Fade in: _

_ Two horses ride in the distance along the desert, with two men seated upon them, just barely out of focus. Another man, half-dead, is slung over the back of one of the men’s horses. His body is limp and moves with the horse he’s draped over as the two other men, very much alive, ride further away and off towards the sunset. _

***

John arrives on set at the Cinecittà Studios to shoot some of the interior scenes, that next morning. He’d filled Hosea in on the details of the script and the dinner with Dutch on his hotel room phone, all of which Hosea was delighted to hear about. 

“What d’you think of Arthur?” Hosea had asked, and John didn’t know how to answer that question right away.

He’d been completely starstruck from the moment he laid eyes on him, and perhaps John’s expectations of Arthur having the personality of every single good guy he played in the movies had led to John’s first impression of him. 

“He’s alright,” John had shrugged, holding the phone to his ear. “Like every Hollywood star I’ve ever met, I suppose.” 

Hosea had laughed at first, a short little chuckle. “Well, let’s hope you two get along just fine, then. Save some of that chemistry for the screen.”

“Ain’t sure we got much chemistry,” John had said, because there wasn’t any point in lying. John wasn’t sure how really anyone besides Dutch had chemistry with the man. 

“Well, then  _ act  _ like you do,” Hosea said, and the harmless jab had John grinning, at least. “That’s what you do best, isn’t it?” 

Dutch catches John back in the makeup trailer, where a few of the other actors and actresses are dipping their faces in bowls of ice water. A routine he’d seen many times back in Hollywood, it apparently reduces the puffiness around the eyes and tightens the skin. John had tried it a few times before but never really got in the habit of keeping the routine. 

“John!” Dutch busts through the makeup trailer door with about as much of the same force as if he’d kicked it in, instead. “How  _ are  _ you, my boy?”

“Just fine, Dutch,” John puts on a polite smile and shakes the man’s hand, just as firmly as the night before. 

“I assume you’ve met Josiah - who does costumes,” Dutch turns to gesture to the man behind him in a three-peice suit who seems to be in a close competition with Dutch as to who has the bigger mustache. John gives him a half-wave, still holding his smile and the other man curtly tips his head at him in recognition.

“And Karen, who’s in charge of makeup and hair,” Dutch, then gestures to the woman standing off to the far side of the trailer, who’s assisting one of the other actors by dunking a cloth into the bowl of ice water in front of him and then pressing it to his face. 

She gives an offhanded wave in the general direction of where Dutch and John are but never looks their way. 

“Now, about your look, I want it to be a bit more gritty than what’s usually expected,” Dutch says, changing the subject. “Nowadays, they throw every evil antagonist in a fancy suit - which frankly, I think is sending the wrong message.”

John’s eyes are drawn back to Trelawny, who seems to wholeheartedly agree with the statement, before returning his attention back on Dutch. 

“Okay,” John drags the word out. Used to the indoor soundstages back in Hollywood, John could see a difference between Hollywood’s cowboys and Italy’s cowboys. One big difference was most of the scenes were filmed in exterior locations, right under the hot sun. Everyone squinted and looked like they had a layer of dust on them an inch thick. 

Hollywood has spoiled John easily enough, the closest version of “gritty” represented in his own personal vocabulary would probably be the hippies that wandered up and down the Sunset Strip. 

“Duster jacket, leather vest,” Dutch says, thoughtful, as if he can imagine the outfit on John as they speak. “They use that whole ‘black hat’ symbolism down in Hollywood, right? Why not make the whole outfit black?” 

“I’ve already fitted Arthur with some brighter colors,” Josiah adds from behind Dutch. “Although, I have to say the black hat suits him, as well. I found some old gamblers hat from a few years ago - pulls the look together wonderfully.”

“Then I suppose you will not disappoint on pulling together John’s wardrobe, as well,” Dutch says, and Josiah must take that as a cue, because he’s already headed towards the door of the trailer. Dutch glances at him over his shoulder for a brief second before adding, “Remember, I want  _ gritty _ .”

Josiah responds with a quick little bow as a farewell and disappears outside, the door closing behind him. 

***

Much to John’s surprise, Arthur finds him sitting outside near one of the sound stages. Arthur had been busy all day filming the interior scenes, and seeing as John was in maybe half of them, he’s had to do a lot of waiting around. 

Arthur doesn’t even make his presence known until he calls out to John, and it startles him a bit - not enough to have him jumping out of his seat but enough that it’s probably noticeable from where Arthur’s strolling towards him.

“So,” Arthur calls out, and John glances up in the direction of his voice. “How you holdin’ up, bad guy?”

Arthur approaches him, dressed in an outfit that John could only describe as a damn near perfect representation of some wild west cowboy hero, complete with a prop rifle slung around his back. 

John shifts in his seat. “Just fine, what about you?”

“Never better,” Arthur stops a few feet away from where John’s sitting, and John notices the way Arthur’s hands automatically go to grip onto his gun belt. The perfect wild west cowboy hero, indeed. 

Arthur waits a second or two, giving John the opportunity to reply. When he doesn’t, Arthur shifts his weight from one leg to the other, glancing around as if trying to come up with something else to say. 

Then, as if he’s thought of something, “You read through your lines already?”

Arthur’s trying to  _ make conversation _ . Although John isn’t entirely sure what to do with that realization, it’s one that he stores away in the back of his mind for safekeeping. 

“Yep,” John says, and the word trails off, leaving silence between the two once again. 

Arthur sighs, as if trying to get John to talk to him is an absolute chore. And it probably is,  _ probably  _ because it’s John’s intention to make it so. Arthur spoke maybe twenty words total throughout the whole dinner last night, and it’s damn ironic that he’s here trying to chat John up, and getting frustrated when John won’t comply.

But, then, again, maybe it was just a bad first impression.

“You just plan on sittin’ on your ass all day or,” Arthur gestures to where John’s sitting. “You putting those lines to use anytime soon?”

Then, again. Maybe it wasn’t.

John narrows his eyes at the other man, and stands up a bit more aggressively than necessary. He straightens himself, almost instinctively. Arthur’s taller than him, and built with a bit more brawn, but John’s no coward. He spent most of his youth looking for fights and getting into arguments that’s almost always lead to fights.

“ _ Yeah _ ,” John snaps, not bothering to clarify which of Arthur’s questions he’s answering.

Arthur assumes the most productive of the questions, and his demeanor relaxes a little, this time gesturing towards inside the building with a sweep of his hand. John might even swear to seeing a bit of an amused smile on the other man’s features. “Well, let’s get to it, then. They’re callin’ for you.”

John follows Arthur inside the building without another word and over to a section of the soundstage that’s built into the interior of a typical wild west saloon. Wooden walls, wooden floors, wooden chairs. All complete with a loft that wraps around the set. 

The scene covers the part where Arthur’s character finally confronts John’s character. Two old friends who have become bitter enemies. Arthur’s character, Tacitus Kilgore, spares John’s character, Jim Milton, his life and in return, Milton spares Kilgore an explanation and a bit of reasoning. 

***

_ Kilgore leads Milton in the saloon with the barrel of his gun jabbed right in between his shoulder blades. Although Milton has his hands up in surrender, his expression might convey that this all is just another minor nuisance.  _

_ They walk slowly together, all heads in the saloon are turned in their direction. Kilgore scans the room for anyone brave enough to try and save Milton from this predicament. No takers. _

_ “Have a seat, Jim.” Kilgore says, leading Milton to a nearby table. Milton pulls back a chair and sits down, Kilgore takes a seat across the table from him, gun now pointed at Milton’s heart. _

_ Milton relaxes, lets his hands drop to his lap, and Kilgore gestures at him with his gun. “Keep your hands on the table where I can see ‘em. I know you’re not above trying every old dirty trick in the book, especially when it comes to your life.” _

_ Milton does as he’s told, putting his palms flat out on the table top. He smiles at Kilgore, however. “You don’t trust me, Tacitus?”  _

_ Kilgore smiles back, and shakes his head. “About as far as I could throw you.” _

_ Milton chuckles, as if Kilgore’s told a joke that only he understands. “That’s funny. But I don't blame you.” _

_ Kilgore shrugs. Milton breathes, in and out, and the smile fades away.  _

_ “What do you wanna know?” Milton asks.  _

_ “I think you know.” Kilgore says. There’s a million and one questions he could ask, and Milton knows every damn one of them as well as Kilgore does. _

_ “You wanna know why I came after you, huh?” Milton picks out a question, but it’s possibly the biggest. “You wanna know why I shot you down in front of your little ranch house on the outskirts of New Austin and carried your carcass across the Border?” _

_ “We could start there,” Kilgore says. His jaw clenches, Milton knows he’s close to striking a nerve. _

_ “Well, Tacitus, I tell you, when I got arrested on that train job all them years back, they took me to prison, and they didn’t hang me. They probably should’ve, but they didn’t.” Milton explains, looking right at Kilgore, not even acknowledging the gun, anymore. A speech he’s well rehearsed, like he’s just hoped all these years someone would ask for and here the opportunity finally arises. _

_ “Left me with a lot of time to think. I started thinking about how quickly the law showed up on that job, and how that just didn’t seem to make any sense unless one of us had squealed,” Milton continues. “And then, I got to thinking about you.” _

_ Milton has more than struck a nerve, now. Kilgore bangs his fist down on the table top. “I’m no rat, Milton.” _

_ Milton leans back in his chair, although his hands still remain in place. The smile is back. “Oh, I think you are. I think you had me arrested, to play out this fantasy of yours of becoming the better man. You sure didn’t accompany Aiden in breaking me out, and Aiden told me it was you who ratted.”  _

_ “Aiden’s a damn liar. I told you all this life wasn’t for me any more. I wanted out.” Kilgore grits out, staring daggers into the man across from him. “But I wouldn’t risk your freedom to do so.” _

_ “Keep telling yourself that, Tacitus. You just might actually believe it to be true.” Milton hisses out, the smile still well placed on his features. “However, I do not.” _

***

The sun is soon to set, casting the sky in an array of light pinks and yellows. The end of the day, as well as the end to John’s first day of work in Rome. 

John stands outside of his trailer with Dutch’s arm thrown over his shoulders. A well-placed smile representing a day’s work well done. Arthur stands in front of them, wearing his own smile. He and John have shed their costumes and are back in their regular clothes. 

John thinks about telling Arthur that he looks better without all that tacky cowboy garb on, but he decides not to.

“My boy, you are just what I expected,” Dutch is saying, voice loud and satisfied. “Mr. Matthews wasn’t lying when he said you just might be the best damn actor in all of Hollywood.”

John chuckles at this, about to form some sort of modest reply, but Arthur beats him to it. 

“I don’t know about  _ that,  _ now.” Arthur says, and John looks up at him. He’s still smiling, and he holds John’s gaze for about a second and then directs it back to Dutch. 

“With the exception of you, Arthur, of course,” Dutch corrects himself, reaching out and patting at Arthur’s shoulder with his free hand. “I have the best  _ two  _ actors in Hollywood in my film, and boys, you sure proved that to me, today.”

It’s almost a surreal moment, one that John doesn’t let himself think too much about at the moment, but it’s one that he sure will dwell upon later from the safety of his hotel room. Being compared to Arthur Morgan. It’s like a lifetime dream coming true right before John’s very eyes.

John lets himself look at Arthur again, all the while Dutch continues to shower the two of them in compliments, and Arthur’s looking right back at him. Smile still in place. 

Now, John thinks about telling him that he looks better like this, without the sour scowl of a scorned cowboy he’s wore all day long. But, again, he decides against it.

“Arthur, how about you and John go grab yourselves some dinner at the finest damn restaurant in Rome, my treat,” John tunes back into what Dutch is saying, and apparently Arthur has too, because his gaze flickers over towards Dutch, instead. “You both deserve it.”

Arthur looks like he’s considering it, giving a mild shrug of his shoulder, before looking back to John. “Why not?” 

“You don’t plan on joining us?” John inquires, turning his head to acknowledge the man beside him.

“I’m afraid I have other plans for this evening,” Dutch lets John go out of his one-armed embrace. “Besides I’m sure the two of of you have had well-enough of the likes of my company for one day.”

John isn’t sure why, but the thought of having dinner alone with Arthur is a highly strung one. Not necessarily in a  _ bad  _ way, but one that makes John feel like he’s 20 years old again, gazing up at the big screen of a drive-in theatre and seeing the very face he’s looking at gazing right back at him.

“Don’t worry, Dutch,” Then Arthur’s stepping forward, placing a hand on John’s shoulder and starting to lead him away. His grip isn’t tight or anything close to forceful, but John goes easily enough, anyway. “I’ll take good care of your  _ golden boy _ .” 

Arthur leads him away from Dutch, and the warmth from his hand seems to radiate through John’s jacket and down to the skin of his shoulder. Or maybe it’s just that John’s feeling particularly warm all over at this moment, from his hairline down to his toes. 

And maybe it’s the lopsided grin Arthur gives him when John glances over at him that has John feeling just a bit warmer.


	2. Chapter 2

Nightlife in Rome seems just as busy as it does back in Los Angeles. Only Rome has a lot more to look at, if that seems possible. Less flashy signs with more beautiful architecture. 

John can’t help himself but gaze out the window at the passing scenery as he and Arthur are chauffeured to the restaurant. 

Arthur sits beside him in the backseat of the car, elbow propped up in the window seal with his chin propped up against his hand. He too has his attention diverted to the outside of Rome’s streets. 

It’s a short ride, although John finds himself glancing over every couple of minutes at Arthur to see him in the exact same position as he was the last time John looked. It’s when he turns his head to look back out the window that he feels Arthur move beside him, like he’s parroting John and glancing over at him, as well. 

An unintentional game of back and forth glances, the two of them exchanging looks instead of conversation. It seems Arthur is a man of few words without Dutch’s company, and John can admit that he expected as much. 

They’ve been in the car for about ten minutes, the entire time without speaking so much as a word to each other apart from Arthur giving the driver the name of the restaurant, until John can sense Arthur’s eyes back on him. 

“So, uh,” Arthur clears his throat, and John glances over at him. “You live back in L.A. then?” 

“Yeah, I’m hoping to get a house in the hills someday, though.” John had heard practically the entirety of his acting career that you’ll know you’ve made it when you get a home up in Beverly Hills. Whether this was true or not, John hadn’t really considered, but he always assumed he’d find out eventually. 

“You ain’t missin’ much,” Arthur halfway chuckles, waving John off. “Just a private road, a view of the city and high property taxes.”

“You got a house up there?” John asks, and it’s a stupid question because _of course_ Arthur Morgan lives in Beverly Hills. 

Arthur just shrugs. A simple jerk of his shoulders, but the prideful look on his face is something John has experienced himself. 

Albeit sparingly, John’s been exposed to the feeling of stardom and all its little reminders. The feeling John gets when he signs autographs or when he sees his own name in the credits of a movie. It’s a feeling John hasn’t quite gotten used to yet, and he’s not entirely sure he ever will. 

***

The restaurant isn’t as fancy as the one he met Dutch at, but it’s definitely nothing to shrug at either. 

Beautiful greenery surrounding the tables outside of the restaurant, draped over the awning just like the mood-setting lights that hang along with it. They take one of the tables outside, away from the crowd of people that are dining inside of the restaurant. 

John orders first, to which Arthur insists - leaned back in his seat, with a charming smile John was starting to think he only wore for the cameras. “After you.”

Picioni alla Gricia con gorgonzola dolce, or pasta with bacon and bleu cheese as the menu translates. Arthur orders the same.

“Thought you liked fish,” John says when the waiter takes away their menu.

“Hm?” Arthur looks at him like he doesn’t have a clue as to what John’s talking about, and then, just as John’s about to clarify - the realization seems to snap in Arthur’s brain.

“Oh,” Arthur chuckles, and it’s a nice sound - John has to admit. “Dutch tell you that?”

“Yeah.”

“No, no - _Dutch_ likes fish,” Arthur says. “ _Dutch_ assumes that everyone else likes what he likes.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Dutch is the kind of guy that takes his own opinion and tastes and projects it onto everyone else,” Arthur shifts in his seat, sitting upright - no longer the image of everything casual. “He’s that way with everything: movies, directing, food - it doesn’t matter.”

John has to admit, somewhere in being caught up in Rome, itself, along with Dutch’s charm - he could see that the guy was a bit full of himself. But, hell - he’s a big-time movie director with more money that John could only hope to see in his lifetime, so of course he's got an ego to match.

The waiter shows back up a little later with their food, and Arthur continues on.

“He thinks that him making cameos in his own movies is brilliant, he thinks of it as his own brand - and he _thinks_ that everyone else thinks that way, too,” Arthur says, gesturing with his fork. “and well, nobody really has the heart or the guts to tell him any different.”

John snorts. “He makes _cameos_?”

Maybe if he’d had time to actually watch a van der Linde film, he’d be aware of this already. But, Hosea was all the more persistent to get him on a plane to Rome as soon as possible. He'd heard of Dutch before, sure, but whether or not he'd actually seen a film directed by Dutch - John wasn't too sure.

“Yeah, he’s Aiden O’Malley in this film,” Arthur gives an amused little huff of breath. “we’ll be shooting a few scenes with him tomorrow - and the way he sees it - we should be thanking our lucky stars for the pleasure.”

“Jesus,” John drops his gaze back down to the plate of food in front of him.

Arthur seems content with keeping his eyes on John while eating. It’s kind of intense, but John assumes Arthur’s mastered the way of casual dinner conversations, or at least has way more experience in it.

“Yeah, the man’s a narcissist at best.”

There's some bitterness here within Arthur now that John hadn't quite expected, and by the way John's witnessed Dutch and Arthur argue over a scene, sometimes up to twenty minutes before they settle on an agreement - John's sure all of this isn't anything Arthur wouldn't say to Dutch, himself.

There’s a pause. John lets Arthur’s words settle between the two of them.

“Then why are you working for him?” John lets himself glance back up at the other man.

Arthur stares at him for a moment. He looks like he’s considering John’s question, like maybe he doesn’t truly have an answer.

“He pays well,” Arthur says, and he finally drops his gaze. “and there ain’t much left for me in Hollywood. All the roles are handed out to young up and coming stars such as yourself.”

John feels a sense of accomplishment at this, but he isn’t sure as to what in particular. Winning Arthur’s staring contest or Arthur’s words that are obviously pointed at him.

“Sorry,” John mutters, because it’s polite.

“Don’t be,” Arthur shrugs it off. “ain’t your fault. We all get old eventually.”

The two of them eat in silence for a while after that. John’s stuck in between not knowing _what_ to say, and hoping that maybe the silence will say it for him - whatever that is. He’s known of Arthur Morgan for a better chunk of his lifetime, John could easily admit that Arthur made the list of people that John admired as an actor - through and through. 

Sitting here, with _this_ Arthur Morgan, however - it makes the man seem a bit more real.

Despite Arthur staring down at his food, contemplating it like maybe he’s said too much, he’s the first one to break the silence.

“Dutch has a way of convincing you that what he wants is what you want, though, that’s how he got me at first.” His voice is softer now, and he isn’t staring at John with that unwavering intensity anymore. Shoulders hunched over, head down - he looks smaller. “Words are that man’s greatest weapon, it’s his talent.”

John almost doesn’t even realize it’s _he_ who’s doing the staring now, but Arthur realizes it - he must practically feel it, because he glances up at John.

“What?”

John also realizes that he’s smiling, too. Whatever that means. “I haven’t heard you speak that much since I met you.”

“Yeah, well,” Arthur chuckles, although the faint smile it brings is only flickering. “Just tryin’ to lend some advice, is all.”

Advice.

John’s sure it isn’t intentional, and maybe he’s just tired, and maybe he’s still a little jet-lagged - but that word _hits_ him. It makes him think back to the warm hand on his shoulder back at the studio, Arthur leading him away, calling him Dutch’s _golden boy._

It makes John think about Arthur, almost unnaturally talkative tonight, using his own words as a weapon just in the way he said Dutch uses his.

It makes John think that perhaps Arthur’s words aren’t words of advice, at all. 

John leans forward, sitting his fork back down on the plate. Full attention is given to Arthur. “And what would that be?”

Arthur glances back up at him, in the midst of picking at the pasta in front of him. “To get out while you still can, this film will give you enough leverage to earn you the lead in any movie you want back in Hollywood.” He says, now using the fork to gesture with. “I’d suggest hopping back on whatever plane you flew in on and gettin’ the hell outta here.”

And _this_ \- right here, seems only to confirm John’s suspicions. That is the world of show business after all, right? A world that’s strictly cut-throat no matter how you look at it. 

John tacks it down as a rookie mistake to assume anything otherwise. “You seem awfully eager to get me off your turf, Morgan.” 

Arthur’s looking at John now like he might’ve not heard him right. “What?”

John knows he did, hell - Arthur knows he did. But, it’s a second chance that John doesn’t take.

“Seems strange, is all I’m saying,” John shrugs, leaning back in his chair. He’s well past lost his appetite.

Arthur’s expression turns hard - he’s full on glaring over the table at John now, leaned forward and pointing at John with the fork that’s still in his hand. “I’m trying to give you some advice, you ungrateful sack of -”

“Oh, I’m grateful, alright,” John cuts him off, pushing back his chair with a scrape against the floor - loud enough to get half the outside dining patrons' attention. “grateful for this film and opportunities it’ll grant me on my way back to Hollywood - you were right about that. But I’m taking every opportunity that’s given to me _here_ , first.”

“ _Fine_ , you wanna think I’m tryin’ to step on your toes, go ahead,” Arthur snaps, his glare following John as he stands up from his seat. Every eye within a 20 feet radius is focused on them now - John can practically feel it. It feels like he’s on stage, or on camera and it’s _intense_. “I learned the hard way that steppin’ on folk that’s tryin’ to help is the wrong thing to do to get ahead.”

Arthur probably means that as a threat, and going by the look on his face - it most likely is. But, if this is how Arthur is trying to help, by sending John on back to Hollywood as soon as possible - then no, thanks. Even if Dutch is a self-absorbed bastard to work with, it’s his _own_ benefit John has to keep in mind.

“Apparently, you didn’t,” John jerks out his wallet, throws a couple of twenties down on the table. “Here's the money for dinner. See you on set, _partner._ ”

With a little flippant gesture like he’s tipping his invisible hat, John turns and heads back out through the entrance.

“Yeah -” Arthur starts, apparently wanting the last word, but John pays him no mind and keeps on walking. Eventually, Arthur calls out to him before he can get too far away. “ _Hey_ \- _not_ if I see you _first!_ _Goddamn it_.”

John hears the loud cling of silverware or dishes, like Arthur has just banged his fist down on the table in frustration - or maybe thumped his knee against the top of the table. Either way, he keeps on walking until he’s back on the sidewalk and catches himself a ride back to the hotel.

***

The next couple of weeks on set are tense, just as John expected them to be. 

Arthur only speaks to him when he’s in character. When he’s Kilgore, the ex-outlaw turned rancher looking for revenge. 

They film a few scenes with Dutch, as a minor character in the film by the name of Aiden O’Malley. 

_“I guess the old saying goes - keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Kilgore chuckles, standing outside the saloon now. His smile is bitter, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I guess you take that to heart, Milton.”_

_Milton straightens himself, standing on the porch of the saloon. His brows furrow for a second then he snorts, glancing over at O’Malley who stands to the right of him._

_“What’s that supposed to mean?” Milton asks, defensive. He’s never been one to appreciate someone having the upper hand on him, especially Kilgore._

_O’Malley straightens himself, as well. His hand slowly making its way to the gun at his side. Not stealthily enough for Kilgore not to notice, however._

_A few onlookers and townsfolk peer down below at the three of them from the windows of a few nearby buildings. The anticipation continues to rise as Kilgore’s smile transforms - into something a little more amused._

_“Aiden, you wanna tell him how you got arrested back in Tumbleweed a couple of weeks prior to that train job we all did?” Kilgore says, and the question is rhetorical - by the look on O’Malley’s face, he doesn’t plan on speaking a word any time soon. Sheer panic peaking through a faulty mask of calm. “Or shall I?”_

_Milton laughs, short, and jerks his head over to glance at O’Malley. “What the hell is he talkin’ about?”_

_“He doesn’t have any idea as to what he’s talkin’ about,” O’Malley grits out the words, jaw clenched. His hand still hovers over his gun._

_“Oh, but I do,” Kilgore insists, words slow and paced out. “Seems you buddied up to Tumbleweed’s sheriff real nice, I reckon the two of you had an agreement of some sort.”_

_Milton’s stuck in between glancing between the two of them, something between realization and denial on his features. O’Malley’s jaw is still clenched, tight enough that it looks he could break a few teeth with as much pressure as he’s applying, and he keeps a steady gaze on Kilgore._

_“Forgive me, but my memory ain’t what it used to be,” Kilgore smiles again, mocking. “But, what exactly was that agreement, Aiden? Do you remember?”_

_O’Malley takes his gun out of his holster, ready to shoot - but Kilgore beats him to it, a shot is fired and O’Malley is sent back against one of the chairs sitting outside on the saloon porch._

_Milton turns his attention to Kilgore, wide-eyed and frozen._

_“Taticus,” He says. It could be a plea, but the hand that’s fumbling for his gun says otherwise._

_Another shot rings out, and Milton is sent sprawling back along with his former gang member._

_Kilgore puts his gun back in his holster, takes a breath. The anger fades on his face as the slight remorse of killing his two former friends replaces it._

***

“How’s Rome treatin’ you?” Hosea asks John over the phone one night. It’s the first time in a while he’s had the chance to actually call and chat with him, and it feels nice. After being nearly ignored by Arthur and watching all their intense energies be either swept under the rug by Dutch or encouraged to use during filming, it’s nice to talk to someone John knows is fully in his corner.

“Alright, I guess,” John mumbles. “Arthur and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms but other than that life’s a real party down here.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of that,” Hosea admits. “I’ve heard he can be a bit difficult to work with at times, but I was almost positive you two would hit it off.”

“Oh, we hit it off, alright. Nearly knocked him out my second night of being here.”

“Well, I’m glad you resisted the urge,” Hosea says, and John can hear the smile in his voice. “what happened?”

John picks up the phone from where it sits on his bedside table, starts pacing the room as far as the cord that’s plugged up into the wall will let him. “He just made it real clear that it was his world I was livin’ in, tried making Dutch seem like this impossible bastard to work with when really the only impossible bastard I’ve met so far is him.”

He’s got a habit of pacing when he talks about something that makes him nervous or frustrates him, and glancing at himself in the mirror above the dresser - John is glad for the first time that Hosea isn’t here with him. Hosea knows about this little quirk of his, Hosea would know that Arthur’s insufferable silence bothers him more than John’s willing to let on.

“Oh, Dutch is one impossible bastard, I’ll have to agree with Arthur on that one,” Hosea says. John squashes down the urge to ask him whose side he’s on. “perhaps that’s why they’ve been working together for the last couple of years. Dutch usually runs all his talent off.”

“I wasn’t aware you were this well acquainted with Dutch,” John says. “besides, he ain’t runnin’ me off, Dutch has already got a new script he’s working on, and he wants me and Arthur in it.”

Hosea sighs into the phone. “I used to work with Dutch when he still lived in L.A., before I managed the talent I _was_ the talent, and well, I starred in a few of Dutch’s lesser-known films.”

“I didn’t know that, Hosea.”

“Well, I’d prefer you didn’t. Wasn’t my best work,” Hosea says. “anyway, give Arthur some time, I’m sure he’ll warm up to you - this fast-paced revolving door world isn’t very kind to the fading stars of yesterday, I’m sure he has a right to be a bit of a moody bastard.”

“If you say so.”

“I _do_ say so, and good call taking Dutch up on that new film, you still got a ways before this Rogue Valley contract is up, keep that in mind.”

***

Only a few days later and John and Arthur’s bit of tense silence is broken outside of being in character only when they’re nearly finished filming Ghost Town, and Dutch has already decided that their next big film they’re in is gonna be part of a series.

Arthur is the one to break it, and this is because - John assumes, he realizes that _one_ \- John isn’t just gonna cut and run after this film is finished, and _two_ \- unfortunately, Dutch wants them to work together again.

John finds him outside, near the trailers, still fully dressed in his cowboy gear, and spotted with fake blood and a couple of fake bruises from the makeup department. John has full intentions to just stroll right on past him, without so much as a glance in his direction, but the sound of Arthur’s voice catches him off guard.

“Howdy.”

John stops a few steps ahead from where Arthur sits on the stairs to his trailer, but doesn’t turn around to face him - not yet.

“You finally decide to speak to me?”

“I don’t know,” He hears Arthur say. “Are you gonna speak to me?”

“Ain’t speakin’ to anybody these days, really,” John squares his shoulders, probably as a reflex, and turns around, facing Arthur. “just been speakin’ when I’m supposed to speak, saying my lines - hopefully, all this will be over with soon enough.”

Arthur just sighs, disregarding John’s stance with a shake of his head. He pulls himself up to stand in front of John, and the two of them are on the same eye-level. Still, John keeps his chin held high. “Listen - I don’t know what put it in your head that I don’t want you here, Marston. This movie’s just as much yours as it is mine.”

“That’s not the way you made it seem that night at dinner,” John retorts, although his guard drops a little.

Arthur seems to be all but pulling out an imaginary white flag, his hands even go up for a split-second, feigning surrender.

“I didn’t mean to make it seem that way, alright? Oh, and speaking of which -” Arthur digs in one of the pockets of his fringe leather jacket, and pulls out a couple of twenties before handing them out for John to take. “Next time you wanna trick me into letting you pay for dinner, try to be a little more subtle about it.”

John tries shoving his hand away but Arthur’s persistent. He keeps his hand extended until John reluctantly takes his money back.

“I’ll let you buy next time, cowboy,” Arthur says, watching John shove the money back into his pocket with a smile. Wide and toothy, the kind that John’s always had a hard time looking at directly. 

A smile that doesn’t seem like it’s meant for him, but only for the silver screen back in Hollywood’s biggest theaters. 

John changes the subject, eventually dragging his gaze back up to meet Arthur’s. “You think I made the right decision by staying?”

“Five years have taught me one thing, if nothing else. If you take a chance, be sure the reward's worth the risk. They can put you away just as fast for a ten-dollar heist as for a million,” Arthur puts on a noticeable semi-passable Mid-Atlantic accent, taking up an air of transparent bravado.

John recognizes the line almost immediately. “What is that? Kubrick?”

“The Killing - yeah, _Johnny Clay_ ,” Arthur’s leaning back against his trailer, now, lighting a cigarette. He takes a puff off of it before handing it over to John, who takes it. “I auditioned for the part but - guess Hayden made a more convincing silver-tongued veteran criminal.”

John could see it, the starring role in a noir film quickly on its way to becoming a cult classic. Wouldn’t have been out of place alongside the other numerous films Arthur starred in during the 1950s. 

“Maybe that’s why Dutch gives you all the John Wayne roles,” John smiles around the cigarette. Though he’s only needling Arthur at this point, and it’s definitely not the Wayne stereotype of cowboy roles that Dutch ever assigns Arthur - more or less something caught in between a good guy cowpoke and a gritty, squinting, cigar-smoking anti-hero - Arthur does play it well.

Arthur straightens himself, taking to that comment just as John expected him to. He jerks the offered cigarette out of John’s hand and brings it back to his own lips. “You ever compare me to _Marion_ again and I’ll never speak another goddamn word to you.”

“I’m kidding,” now it’s John’s turn to surrender. “you would’ve made a fine Johnny Clay - makeup would’ve had a hell of a time trying to pass you off as a forty-year-old.”

“Nearly twelve years ago, maybe,” Arthur diverts his attention to something a little off to John’s side, a nearly unnoticeable act of modesty. “now, they wish they could make me look young enough to pass as forty.”

“Hell, you don’t look a day over thirty-seven.”

That reels his attention back in. “I’m _thirty-six_.”

“I know.”

“First you buy me dinner, now you’re tryin’ to sweet talk me,” Arthur laughs, passing the now half-finished cigarette back to John. “I ain’t goin’ home with you if that’s what you’re getting at, Marston.”

Under any other circumstances, John probably would’ve ended up flustered with this conversation. Right now, however, talking to Arthur like this - a quick, back and forth playfully suggestive banter - it feels easy. 

Like breathing, almost. Like reciting out a couple of lines that he’s spent all day practicing. 

Maybe it’s because John isn’t thinking too much, or maybe it’s because Arthur’s still dressed like it’s the 1880s, or maybe it’s because after a couple of weeks of a shared, purely out-of-character silence John would have to be a lesser stubborn man to admit he _missed_ talking to Arthur.

A silence that both of them seemed too stubborn to break.

And still being stubborn when the opportunity presents itself, John might not admit this banter they’re tossing back and forth is just casual flirting. “Oh, it takes a bit more than a few compliments and free dinners to win you over, then?”

John has half a mind to ask Arthur just exactly _what_ it takes to win him over. 

“A lot more,” And as if Arthur’s reading into his intentions, he supplies an answer. “but, you’re on the right track.”

Not as detailed of an answer as John might’ve hoped, but one that _provides_ hope, nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the term "cult classic" didn't really originate until the 1970s but let's just pretend it was a thing a few years prior 
> 
> the film mentioned is The Killing, which was directed Stanley Kubrick in 1956.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sections in italics are sections from the script or scenes in the "movies"

After the release of _Città Fantasma,_ the paparazzi seemed to take a bit of a notice in John. 

Hell, they practically followed Arthur around wherever he went, unless he was subtle enough to not draw any attention. Sunglasses, an upturned collar, what have you.

John, however - much like the few occurrences of paparazzi he encountered back in Hollywood, seemed to relish the flash of the cameras and excited, overlapping chatter brought on by his presence. 

Dutch is a kind of “any press is good press” type of man, from what Arthur’s told him, so it’s completely expected for him to schedule a big-deal contract signing for Dutch’s new trilogy based on the story of George Curry and Harvey Logan. 

He even invited over a small handful of the press to document the event and take pictures. And with the success of Città Fantasma, this new project - of which Dutch was referring to it as simply “The Curry Trilogy”, would undoubtedly be a hit.

John and Arthur stand side by side, in a room nearly illuminated from the flashes of the cameras, and John doesn’t have to glance over to see he’s completely on edge in comparison to Arthur. 

Arthur’s answering the questions thrown at him by the press with total ease, mumbling around the cigarette hanging between his lips. 

No matter how many films John will have the pleasure of starring in with Arthur, no matter how many events he attends with him, John will probably never stop being amazed by Arthur Morgan. 

How it seems there is no other place in the world for him but to be in the spotlight. How he modestly insists that his stardom is losing its glimmer, and how entirely untrue these claims are.

“In the film, your character is somewhat of a mentor to John’s character - is this in any way similar to your real life relationship with him?” A man with a notepad asks Arthur.

Arthur considers it for a moment, then, “I wouldn’t say _that_ , hell, especially as far as the Currys’ relationship goes,” Arthur says. Then he’s glancing over at John, and planting a hand on his shoulder, jostling him slightly. “Unless Johnny here is planning on taking my last name and avenging my death.”

“Although John Morgan would suit him well enough.”

***

“What sixteen year old has _this_ full of a mustache?”

John sits in the small, cramped up makeup trailer as Karen sticks a large patch of fake hair to his upper lip. He doesn’t even have to glance in the mirror beside him to know he looks ridiculous. He looked ridiculous as Jim Milton, but this probably takes the cake.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Karen says, her expression is nothing but focused. “you’re not playing a sixteen year old, John.”

“Wasn’t that how old Kid Curry was went he met-”

“I don’t know,” Karen cuts him off, and stands back to admire her handiwork when the mustache is fully adhered to John’s face. “were you there?”

“ _No_ ,” John admits, albeit reluctantly.

“Dutch has you in the script as a twenty year old Kid Curry,” Karen moves on to the short-haired wig she’s got plastered on John’s head. It was either that or John cut his hair, and well - _that_ wasn’t happening. “you’d know that if you bothered to read it.”

“I did read it,” John insists, then diverts the subject. “what kind of get up are you puttin’ _Arthur_ in? Does _he_ get a mustache?”

“Yes. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him already - the way you follow him around, I mean.”

Karen spins the chair around so John’s staring at himself in the mirror again, and Karen’s behind him, fussing with his hair, too occupied to meet his gaze.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m jokin’,” She glances up, only briefly, and snorts. “Jeez, don’t flip your wig, Marston.”

_Oh, ha ha. Very funny._

“I know,” John looks to his own reflection again, this time smiling back at him. “I don’t follow him around - I just, I admire him. He’s a great actor, and he’s taught me a lot these past few weeks.”

And maybe he’s smiling at Karen’s joke. Or, _maybe_ he’s smiling because of-

Karen glances up again, meeting his eyes through the mirror. She’s serious again. Focused. “I think it’s the other way around.” 

It takes John a moment. Perhaps a moment longer than he’s willing to admit, but if what Karen’s saying is that Arthur admires _him,_ then - no. _Really?_ “What d’you mean?”

Arthur Morgan admiring him. _Admiring_ him. The famous, Hollywood and Rome celebrity/movie-star Arthur Morgan. John knows they’ve been getting along a bit better, more or less but c’mon - John’s just a damn blimp on his radar.

“Arthur looks at you like you’re the goddamn moon and stars, is all I’m sayin’,” Karen rolls her eyes, like this is the most obvious thing in the world she’s trying to explain. “Ain’t never seen him get on so well with anybody like he does with you.”

“Just because we’re gettin’ _on_ doesn’t mean he _admires_ me.”

“No, it does, trust me,” Karen spins the chair around again, this time applying a bit of makeup to his face. Only to cake it with some fake dirt for that classic Wild West feel later on. “Just - whatever it is that you’re doin’ - keep doin’ it. Arthur’s been an absolute angel since you walked onto set and it makes all of our jobs so much easier when he ain’t grumbling about.”

***

_Logan walks into a bustling saloon somewhere along the lines of Wyoming and Texas, taking in his surroundings of its drunken patrons and lively piano music. He takes his time walking over to the bar, side-stepping a bit to avoid a couple waltzing together to the music, about in the middle of the room. They obviously have had a bit much to drink already._

_Logan leans against the bar, orders himself a beer, and glances over at the patron sitting on a stool beside him._

_The man notices him looking also automatically, by the way his shoulders tense up, and he pauses - mid-sip with the rim of his beer bottle still against his lips before he’s sitting it down with a sigh. Like Logan’s mere glance has just inconvenienced his own afternoon._

_The man turns to Logan, lips set in a tight frown. “What are you lookin’ at?”_

_Logan shrugs, gives a nod of thanks to the bartender as he sits a beer down in front of him. “Nothin’ much, friend.”_

_The man’s still clutching onto his beer, tightly, and he’s still glaring at Logan, who’s attention has been diverted away and somewhere off in the distance. Logan takes a sip from his beer, continues taking in his surroundings._

_“Is that supposed to be funny?” The man asks, and he is rewarded with Logan’s attention once again._

_Logan chuckles, like it was in fact supposed to be funny. “If you want it to be, then, sure.”_

_The man’s expression seems to lighten just a bit, as does the grip on his beer bottle as he lifts it to his lips again and takes a drink. He gives something of an amused sound, himself. “Real comedian, you are, kid.”_

_“Ain’t no kid, friend,” Logan says, and there’s still a bit of leftover amusement in his voice._

_As is the man’s. “And I ain’t your friend, neither.”_

_“Then what should I call you?” Logan asks._

_The man eyes him once again for a moment, as if debating on what fake alias he should provide, but then he settles, the corners of his mouth twitching up into something that couple perhaps be a ghost of a smile._

_“George Curry,” The man introduces himself, extending his hand and Logan takes it in a quick but firm, friendly shake. “Some folk call me ‘Flat-Nose’,”_

_“Well, I have no earthly idea why,” Logan chuckles again, still shaking Curry’s hand. “Harvey Logan, some folk call me Harvey though.”_

***

John doesn’t think much about what Karen told him, or doesn’t ponder on the idea of Arthur admiring him, seeing as when he does, it just seems to distract him and confuse the hell out of him at the same time. 

He fucked up his line twice in the last shoot, completely skipped over a couple of lines of dialogue and Arthur Morgan thinks he’s a good actor. A great actor. It doesn’t make sense.

He doesn’t think about it until, well - until Arthur’s pulling him to the side after the last scene gets wrapped up for the day and is asking him if he wants to go over a few lines back at his suite. Then, it’s all John can think about.

Arthur’s already taken off his fake mustache, and there’s a pinkish line of irritated skin where it used to be. It makes John realize he’s still in his full getup and he yanks off his wig and runs a hand through his hair. 

Consciously, almost. Fidgety. Like he’s standing here trying to work up the courage to ask his crush to the prom. He hasn’t been like this around Arthur probably since the first day he met him, and while it’s probably no secret about the crush he has on Arthur-

“That sound good, then?” Arthur’s asking him. 

“What?” John hadn’t heard a single goddamn word.

Arthur chuckles, a half-amused, half-breathy little sound like he expected just that. 

“Marston, you better be glad you got a pretty face,” Arthur tells him, leaned up against the wall of the sound stage they were all just in a few minutes ago. All cool with his arms crossed like he’s still playing a character, but he’s not. “cause your head sure is full of rocks. You weren’t listening to a word I said, were you?”

It takes John a few moments to realize Arthur just inadvertently or rather very deliberately called him pretty. Arthur’s patient though, and watches as John just stands there looking at him with his mouth slightly ajar like he’d just tuned him out for a second time. 

“Sorry,” John shakes his head, as if that’d help clear it up any, and chuckles at himself. Chuckles at Arthur looking like he’s got all the time in the world to be here and wants to spend every bit of it seeing how many different ways he can make John’s face turn as red as the sunset sky above them. “it’s been a long day, and I got a ton of lines to go over for tomorrow - that is if I don’t _fuck_ them up _again_.”

“Well, if you were listenin’ you would’ve known that’s what I was talking about,” Arthur says, and he’s smiling at him. Maybe he’s been smiling the whole time. “these scenes Dutch is wanting to shoot tomorrow - they’re pretty dialogue-heavy so I thought maybe we should go over ‘em.”

“ _Oh_ ,” John says, and he’s nodding. “okay, yeah.”

“Alright,” Arthur picks himself up off the wall, dips his head a little so he’s looking down somewhere along the ground instead of directly at John. “well, I gotta go change and grab some stuff from my trailer - I’ll meet you back out towards the entrance and we’ll grab a ride back to my place.”

There’s a bit of tenseness hanging in the air between them now. Not quite bad but not entirely good either. An awkward kind, John guesses, albeit entirely unprovoked. Admittedly the insinuations could be there, but they’re just practicing lines - this absolutely has nothing to do with his conversation with Karen nor the fact that moments ago Arthur just called him pretty. 

“Sounds good,” says John, and Arthur picks his gaze back up to settle on him once again. “I’ll - uh, I’ll see you then.”

Then, Arthur’s smiling again. And it’s a bit amused, and maybe a bit shy.

“Lighten up, Marston, it’ll be a good time,” Arthur reaches out, patting at John’s shoulder. John isn’t quite sure if Arthur’s mistaken his mannerisms or if he can read John’s mind. Probably a bit of both. “I even got some Bobby Darin LPs we could listen to. We’ll make a night of it.” 

***

And make a night of it, they shall. 

John had thought he was joking about the Bobby Darin LPs.

Arthur’s suite is an open-plan living area with light-colored walls and dark hardwood flooring. All the furniture has some shade of burgundy or red or scarlet and it’s got a fireplace and big picture windows with a view of the city.

John’s sitting on the wraparound sofa with a glass of some expensive amaretto, dressed up in one of the nicest outfits he brought with him, and Arthur’s standing - _swaying, dancing, whatever -_ a few feet away in front of the record player. 

He’s got his own glass of amaretto in his hand, and John’s surprised he hasn’t spilled it yet with this one step, two step number he’s doing.

So far, John’s convinced that Arthur knows all the words to Beyond the Sea, and admittedly, the guy’s got a pretty good singing voice. 

Arthur’s wearing something similar to a Cabana Set and John might as well be wearing a tuxedo in comparison. 

They’re not even drunk yet, and John’s starting to feel like he should be.

The track switches to Through a Long and Sleepless Night, which Arthur doesn’t know all the words to, so to spare himself some mumbling-induced embarrassment, he turns down the volume on the record player and takes a seat in the chair adjacent to where John’s sitting. 

And John’s just gotta say it, he can’t even stop himself at this point. “I gotta say, for a second there, I thought you were joking.”

“About what?” Arthur’s eyebrows pull together a little, and he takes a sip of the still-fully-intact amaretto. 

John nods towards the record player. “Bobby Darin.”

“Oh,” Arthur glances over his shoulder to where John gestured, then back to John, then starts like he’s gonna stand back up. “D’you want me to put on something different?”

“How about I Can’t Get No Satisfaction?” 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” John waves him off, and Arthur settles back down into the seat. “Darin’s fine. I like Bobby Darin.”

“We should probably go over those lines, though, huh?” Arthur suggests, setting down his glass on the coffee table and grabbing at a pack of cigarettes beside it. He pulls one of the pack, offers one of John, who obliges. He’s even one of those fancy table lighters that John’s always thought about getting for his home but never got around to it. “Dutch’ll have our hides if we go in tomorrow without takin’ a look at ‘em.”

Arthur lights John’s cigarette, then lights his own, and sits the lighter back down on the table.

“He’ll have mine, more like it,” John leans over to hand him the extra script, thinks about tossing it at him out of habit but knowing his luck that’d probably just end badly. “you ain’t the one stumbling over your words.”

“What? You were fine-” Arthur starts, glancing up at him, and flipping through the pages of the script.

“No, I wasn’t,” John cuts him off. “you saw me out there today, I made myself look like an idiot.”

John picks up his own script, starts flipping through the pages, and glances up at Arthur to see him smiling again. “You always look like an idiot, Marston.” 

“I’m joking,” Arthur’s clarifying before John can even think to roll his eyes at the statement. “you’re a good actor, John. Everyone fucks up their lines eventually, if you got this far without fucking up, I gotta say, I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t out there fucking up your lines,”

“No, but-” Arthur starts, but John cuts in.

“I bet Franco Nero doesn’t fuck up his lines, or-or Clint Eastwood-”

“You’re not _them_ , you’re not _me_ ,” Arthur cuts him off, right back. Blow for blow. He holds John’s gaze for a second, taking a drag off his cigarette, before diverting his attention back to the script. “you are built like him, though.”

“Who?”

“Eastwood,” Arthur says without looking at him. “Long legs, slim-like. You got broader shoulders, though.”

John huffs out a laugh at this, more of an amused scoff than anything else. “Well, if only my looks could carry me through the rest of my career, then I guess I’d be damn well near set for life.”

“They could,” Arthur says, and he’s looking at him again. Head-on and intense. “you’re handsome enough. But, you got more talent than that, John.”

“Easy for you to say,” Now John’s rolling his eyes. “Mr. Hollywood, Mr. Everyone In the World Wants to Be Me or Fuck Me-”

John isn’t certain which category he’d fall under. Probably both. Definitely both.

“And you’re not Eastwood or Nero because you’re John Marston, and that’s a good name,” Arthur’s saying before John can ramble out any more analogies or nicknames, and maybe John believes him. Maybe John believes what Karen had told him. 

He’s still no Arthur Morgan, but if Arthur Morgan is the one vouching for him, then well, maybe that says something.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, a damn good name,” Arthur tells him, still smiling, and John’s smiling, too. “Don’t worry about who you ain’t, worry about who you are.”

***

Usually, John does this with a tape recorder - when he receives his copy of a script, he’ll sit down and record himself talking through the other lines and providing enough of a pause for his future self to fill with his own line.

Hosea taught him this technique. A lot of actors do it, apparently.

But, there’s something different about going through the script with Arthur, something nice. Something comforting about the way Arthur’s moved in closer, now, sitting beside him on the sofa with an arm slung over the back of it and his whole body turned to face John as they go through the lines together.

This scene involves the Currys planning out a bank job in South Dakota, along with the help of another outlaw played by Kieran Duffy, a small-name actor that John’s only met in passing a couple of times.

“So I hear there’s a new take,” Arthur says, full on Flat-Nose Curry bravado intact.

“The bank up at Belle Fourche,” John supplies.

Arthur glances down at the script, a nearly burnt out cigarette dangling from his lips. “Then, Duffy says ‘ _Belle Fourche, where the hell’s that?_ ’” He reads before glancing up at John again. “Then _you_ say,”

John’s own cigarette is nearly down to the filter, so he leans over and snuffs it out on the ashtray on Arthur’s coffee table. “South Dakota.” 

Arthur gestures for him to pass the ashtray to him, which John does, and Arthur’s snuffing out his own before placing it back down. “Any risks?”

“There’s always risks,” John says, settling back down against the sofa.

“I’m guessing you took a look at the place.”

John scoffs, a well-practiced one that it took nearly three times to get right. “What d’you take me for, an amateur?”

Then, there’s a lull in the dialogue, one that John doesn’t fully realize is of his own doing until Arthur’s supplying the rest of his line.

“Give me a little credit.”

“What?”

Arthur’s glancing down at the script again. “Your line is ‘what d’you take me for, an amateur, _give me a little credit_.’”

Great. First the fuckup from earlier, and now this - John could probably smack himself. “Oh, shit - _see?_ ”

“You’re doin’ fine,” Arthur waves him off. “just keep it goin’.”

“Okay,” John breathes, tries again. “What d’you take me for, an amateur, give me a little credit.”

“I’ll give you credit when it’s due,” Arthur says, and they’re back on track. “when we get clear with the bank’s money, then I’ll give you credit.”

***

“I don’t know what Dutch is thinkin’ with this trilogy, man,” John's saying, still laid back on Arthur’s sofa, with just enough amaretto in him to make him feel good but not enough to get him quite on the boundaries of tipsy, yet. “if he’s just tryin’ to go toe to toe with Leone, then he’s doin’ a piss-poor job.”

“Well, that would be Dutch,” Arthur’s still beside him, bare feet propped up on the coffee table. If John glances down, he can make out the outline of Arthur’s dick against his thin cotton shorts. A discovery John made only about half an hour ago, and he’s spent the past half-hour trying not to look at it. “full of piss-poor ideas that lead to piss-poor jobs.”

Apparently, Arthur doesn’t wear underwear. Good to know.

“Good to know,” John says, and he glances down again. By accident, on purpose. This would’ve been so much easier if Arthur had invited him over for the reasons John had originally thought. “I’m gonna need a fucking distraction or a fucking miracle one to get through these films, I can already tell.”

“You’re not the only one,” Arthur chuckles, and he glances over at John just in time to catch John glancing down at his crotch again. Then, he’s glancing down, then back up at John. “although, I could think of a few, myself.”

John’s entire face feels like it’s on fire. Thirty minutes of this and Arthur’s just now catching on. John’s not even entirely sure what Arthur means, or which one he means - a fucking distraction or a fucking miracle, but the implication is there and-

“Yeah, well,” John’s pushing himself up and off the couch, almost a knee-jerk reaction. “I probably need to be headin’ off to bed. Thanks for going’ over these with me.”

He can feel Arthur’s eyes on him as he crosses the room to grab his coat.

“Course,” He hears Arthur say from behind him, and John pulls on his coat. He doesn’t look at Arthur even when he takes the extra few steps to the door, and reaches for the doorknob. “see you tomorrow.”

John opens the door, and lets himself out. “‘Night.”

***

He forgot his script.

He’s sure Arthur will bring it to the set tomorrow, but that won’t erase the fact that he just made a complete idiot out of himself, again. Rushing out the door, all red-faced and embarrassed like he was in high school again.

He takes the elevator down to the ground floor of Arthur’s building, waits and watches as the numbers tick down above the door and he’s trying not to think. 

Trying not to think about anything at all. 

The door opens and John walks off the elevator, and it closes behind him. 

He likes Arthur, he really likes him. He’s been attracted to the man since he first saw him, way before he met him, way before Arthur told him he was a good actor. And instead of coming about that, or mentioning it like a normal person, John just spent thirty minutes ogling the outline of Arthur’s dick and Arthur caught him.

Maybe Arthur’s into him, too. John isn’t sure. But, maybe he is. 

But, if he was, then what? What does that mean, if anything? They like each other, they both really like each other, so what then? If John catches him on set tomorrow, he could probably ask - but, no, stupid idea, of course Arthur’s not into him.

But, maybe he is.

If Karen’s word is anything to go by. If the implication that Arthur had made about a fucking distraction was anything to go by. The way Arthur had put a hand on his shoulder, and John could practically hear the smile in his voice when he told the reporter that John Morgan would suit him just fine. 

The way Arthur will glance down at his mouth sometimes like he’s thinking about kissing John but never carrying out the thought. John’s sure he does the same. 

John’s feet carry him to the lobby entrance, then he stops. 

He has to go back. If anything else, just to apologize. Make up some lousy excuse about forgetting his script and maybe in the process asking Arthur how he feels about him. All the admiration stuff aside.

John turns around, walks back to the elevator, and presses the call button.

***

John’s knocks on Arthur’s door at least three times before Arthur ever answers. And John’s faced with the sight of Arthur in his Cabana Suit once again, eyebrows knit together like he wasn’t expecting John to come back.

Hell, John wasn’t even expecting himself to come back.

“Were you making a pass at me?” The words come out of John’s mouth before he can even think. And Arthur’s eyebrows flick up. He’s surprised now, on top of confused. 

“What?” 

“Just now, then the whole ‘pretty’ thing, then before that - the whole _John Morgan_ thing,” John rushes the words out. “were you _flirting_ with me?”

He needs to know. He glances down at Arthur’s mouth, then back up. God, he’s never wanted to kiss another person in his entire life as badly as he wants to kiss Arthur Morgan right now.

Arthur’s smiling again, arms crossed and leaning against the door frame. John would probably wanna wipe that smug look off his face if he didn’t want to kiss it off first. “What d’you think?”

“I don’t know - I think a lot of things,” John shrugs, looking at Arthur looking at him. “that’s why I’m asking.”

Now, Arthur’s rolling his eyes. Annoyed but amused all in one. John doesn’t really blame him. Still, he takes it as a good sign.

“Jesus, Marston,” Arthur’s saying, more amused than annoyed. “that head of yours really is full of rocks, ain’t it-”

And that’s all it takes. It’s the yes John’s looking for.

He leans in, answering both Arthur’s questions and his own, and kisses him. And Arthur’s kissing him back, full-force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i prob got some of the facts about the currys wrong or messed them up, but like i kinda purposely did that bc like one - i mainly did my research from those little weird education sites & wikipedia and two - i kinda wanted it to reflect on the research that dutch did in the process of writing his script. like him just asking one person which outlaws hadn't had their own film yet & someone being like "idk the currys??" and dutch just going to the library and checking out a book and looking at maybe one paragraph of text & being like "ok time to make a movie :)"


End file.
